Operation: Yorick
by 8armstoholdyou
Summary: John notices that Sherlock spends an awful lot of time conversing with his skull and decides to investigate.
1. Chapter 1

"Sherlock, will you please stop chatting with that skull? I'm trying to sleep," John growls as he contemplates throwing a pillow at his door for added effect. Why does Sherlock have to speak so loudly at two in the morning? He hears a pause in the deep baritone rumbling beneath the floorboards.

"John, I am terribly busy at the moment so if you would take care not to interrupt me-"

"THAT'S IT!" shouts John, kicking off his sheets and storming down the stairs. As soon as his feet hit the second floor he halts, surprised. Usually Sherlock would be performing while talking to the skull, even when no one was around to see. His theatrical nature prevented him from being able to sit and quietly discuss something unless he was actively playing the part of the quiet, reserved genius for someone else's benefit. But right now, Sherlock is sitting down, holding the skull close to his lips as if sharing a secret not meant for mortal ears, as if – John wonders why this word comes to mind – conspiring.

He turns, now, letting the skull rest of the arm of his chair. "John, please, I am really very busy," he mumbles, obviously unwilling to discuss the matter at hand. John gapes. What's going on here? Is this a joke, some kind of trick to make him want to know more?

"Alright, tell me. What is it?"

"Unfortunately these matters are of a very sensitive nature, John, and I cannot disclose them to you. Now if you'll excuse me-"

"Okay, hold on. Since when am I not included in the discussion about anything?" John asks, getting angry. Why is Sherlock holding out on him?

Sherlock simply stands, leaving the skull on the arm of his chair, and leaves the room, eyes straight ahead as if simply looking at John would give away whatever secret he was holding. John sighs, sinking into Sherlock's chair. First Sherlock doesn't take him out on a case, claiming that the doctor has "missed too much work." Now this.

Looking down at the skull, John considers the possibility that it might hold secrets as well, ones that he will never know of. He picks it up, brushing his hand over the smooth, flat top. "You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" he asks, feeling silly. "What's Sherlock got to hide?"

No answer from the skull. Oh well, John thinks, at least I tried.

He goes back to bed, feeling the knowledge that Sherlock is hiding something from him gnawing at the back of his mind. He decides to forget about it, falling into a dream where he was chased (and eventually crushed) by a gigantic file cabinet.

Two weeks later, it happens again. John is eating dinner and as he ventures a look into the adjoining room, he sees Sherlock whispering into the ear of his former "friend." As soon as John's eyes hit Sherlock's back, subconsciously tracing the lines of his jacket, Sherlock snaps around. "Can I help you with something?" he asks tiredly. John simply shakes his head and turns away, refocusing on his plate. He takes a bite of the meal Mrs. Hudson had begrudgingly made for him and his flat mate, wondering if this was the only thing he had eaten all day. He stops chewing, however, when he hears his name. Cocking his head to one side, he listens as well as he possibly can while still pretending to chew his food. He can't make anything else out, though, and soon Sherlock sits across from him and says, "You're remarkably terrible at eavesdropping, John." John quickly goes back to chewing normally and swallows.

"I don't know what you mean by that, Sherlock." There is a moment of silence in which Sherlock's stare is completely deafening. "Why don't you have something to eat," John says flatly, obviously and clumsily changing the subject. Sherlock's gaze breaks and frowns, picking out a very small portion for himself and taking his plate to his room.

John's mind once again wanders to the skull and the secrets it must contain. If only there was a way to hear what Sherlock was telling it! He picks it up and looks it straight in the sockets, as if he could scare information out of it. After a few minutes of staring with no results, however, he replaces the skull and starts cleaning up.

Sherlock, observing the interaction between John and the skull from the stairway, is intrigued. He creeps over to his beloved skull and picks it up, examining it for any marks left by John. There is nothing there. Sherlock scolds himself; how could he believe his best friend capable of tampering with his most prized possession? He strides into the kitchen, purposefully making his footfalls audible, and grabs a plate and a cloth to wipe it dry with. John jumps slightly at Sherlock's first step, but is otherwise unaffected by his entrance. Together they wash and dry two plates, two forks, and two mugs. John insists that the pan their dinner was cooked in will take some time to clean, so Sherlock needn't stick around.

Sherlock takes a few steps back and sits at the table, watching John scrub cheese and meat grease from the pan. "That's not what I meant," John says, more to himself than to Sherlock.

"I know," comes the reply. John's hands work faster.

When he finishes, John puts all the dishes away and turns to his flat mate, who is still sitting at the table. Staring. Sherlock opens his mouth to say something, swallows, and says simply, "Good night, John." He stands and exits the room, his footsteps loud all the way to his room. John shakes his head, feeling as though Sherlock had just gone through every single thought he had ever had. He plods over to the TV and turns it on, hoping its meaningless noise would help him forget how strange his friend is being.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning John jerks awake, knowing he heard a loud noise but not knowing who made it or where it came from. Stretching his arms out and rubbing his eyes, he realizes he slept on the couch with the television on all night. He arches his back, hearing the vertebrae pop, and starts to work his way to the kitchen on two legs that had fallen asleep because of his abnormal position.

As soon as he takes a step, however, he falls forward on his hands and knees. Laughing slightly, he pushes himself up and sits flat, deciding to forsake the kitchen for now. "Sherlock?" he calls, rubbing his numb legs. Sherlock slinks out of the kitchen, all messy hair and sleep-flushed skin. John's hands stall at the sight, unable to focus on anything other than taking in his horrendously beautiful flat mate.

"Would you care for tea?" Sherlock asks, holding a half-empty mug loosely, letting its contents spill onto the floor. Before John has a chance to answer, Sherlock's ears perk up like a cat and he turns suddenly, realizing what a mess he's making. He quickly jerks the mug upright and wipes it off on the sleeve of his bathrobe, making like it had never happened.

"Okay," John sighs. He's going to have to clean that up later, but for now his main goal is to get off the floor. "Can you help me up first?" He asks this as though it should be obvious what he wanted. Sherlock shrugs and deposits the mug onto the floor. He then strides over and seizes John under the arms, lifting him easily and placing him onto his feet. "Thanks," he says, surprised by his friend's strength. It's always so easy to forget that tall, lanky Sherlock is as strong as he is.

Sherlock simply picks up his mug and goes back into the kitchen to get one for John. He rummages around for John's favorite (John had never expressed any sort of favoritism for this mug, but it was easy to see that he used it at least four days a week and Sherlock suspected it had been John's mother's, judging by the smaller circumference and dainty handle – for, although John's mother was a woman of sophistication, she did not care for teacups because they were too fragile for her rough-and-tumble life). Finding it absent, he picks another one at random. He turns around to ask whether or not John wants milk and sugar in his tea when he hears a loud, "FUCK!" Sherlock drops the mug on the counter and turns the corner to see –

John, sitting on the floor with all of the glass shards in his hands. Sherlock noticed them earlier but thought nothing of them. Apparently John had not noticed them. With a small sigh, he asks, "What are those?"

"They – it's my mo – my mug," John says seriously. So it was his mother's! Sherlock mentally high-fives himself. He fails to correct his smile when John looks up, however, which leads to John getting angry. "Do you think this is funny?" he asks.

"No, John," replies Sherlock, schooling his face back into its usual passive mask. Then, to try to calm John, he adds some regret and a touch of helplessness to work their way into his features. He takes the shards from John and says, "I'll get you that tea now."

"Thanks," John says quietly, following him into the kitchen and sitting at the table. Sherlock dumps the glass shards into the trash. He slips the largest piece into his pocket while John is distracted by the cling-clang of glass hitting the metal can, dulled by the plastic bag inside it. He offers a new cup to John, who takes it and sips it.

"Milk or sugar?"

"Just sugar, please."

Sherlock hums, dropping two spoonfuls of sugar into the cup and letting John stir it in. "So where did you get that mug?" he asks, trying to make conversation.

"Why don't you tell me," John mumbles tiredly, uninterested in telling Sherlock something he probably already knows. Sherlock sighs and sits down, not taking the bait. John looks up at him, sipping his tea. Sherlock put more sugar in it than usual. He mumbled something about really liking this kind of tea, whatever it was, as a way of accepting his apology. He normally doesn't take sugar in his tea, but a little sweetness always helps him get through hard times.

Thanking Sherlock for the tea, John gets up and goes upstairs to shower, reminding himself that he's going to be late to work and should probably stay late to catch up on everything. He leaves a note saying as much for Sherlock before he leaves, knowing that telling him is useless. The last time he told Sherlock he would be home late and was ignored, Greg showed up at John's practice with ten policemen and several dogs; and no one wants a repeat performance of that.

That night, John catches Sherlock and the Skull again, Sherlock muttering quietly to it while blaring the television as if doing so would convince John that there was nothing important happening. John simply walks into the room and turns off the TV, knowing that Sherlock wants to talk about whatever this big secret is – if he didn't, he would be in his room, shutting everything out. "Okay, Sherlock, talk to me."

"I have nothing to say to you, John." The answer came without anger or malice; it was simply a statement of fact – the kind Sherlock is very in the habit of giving because he knows he could get away with covertly insulting people like that. Contrary to popular belief, Sherlock Holmes is not deficient when it comes to socialization. In fact, he knows "rules" that most people would never even consider thinking about during casual conversation: ways to get people to react as he wants, micro expressions, ways to trick people into lying and then believing the lie. Watching Sherlock converse with someone is truly a wonder to behold. But that's beside the point.

"That's not true and you know it," John says, allowing Sherlock's rudeness to go unchallenged.

"I do not wish to discuss this matter further." With that, Sherlock practically leaps off of his chair and leaves the room. John shakes his head. This game is starting to get very annoying.

Safely in his bedroom, Sherlock lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. "I know, you think I should probably tell him," he mumbles to the skull, making it nod slowly. "I would rather not jeopardize our friendship, though. How do people live like this?" he asks hopelessly. He roots around in his mind palace for any clues about love.

"Oh, you'll know it when you find it," he hears Mrs. Hudson saying.

"What in bloody – Sherlock, are you high? Again?" Lestrade asks. "You're really asking me about this now? There's a body in front of you. Examine his heart, not mine." But for all his angry words, Sherlock thinks he has never heard more fatherly concern before.

"You never were much good at acquiring advice, brother mine," Mycroft replies airily. "The fact that you came to me just proves it."

In short, there's nothing. No one could tell him anything about love or how to find it or how to know it was real. Sherlock wonders why he can't ask John, but decides against it on the grounds that he might accidentally reveal something incriminating. Maybe he should make some sort of grand gesture and examine how John responds to it.

Suddenly, he sits up. "Thank you!" he says to the skull, kissing its forehead. He quickly wipes his mouth, wondering why he suddenly felt possessed to do that. But he is too distracted by his plan to think on it further. He takes the glass shard out of his pocket. He was planning on having an exact replica made for John and casually putting it in its place in the cabinet, but now he has an even better plan. "This one may take some planning," he says aloud, throwing the skull aside.


	3. Chapter 3

In this way, Operation: Yorick was hatched. The plan is to attempt to hear whatever it is Sherlock is plotting with that skull of his. Plan A is as follows: simply hide somewhere in a nearby room and attempt to listen in on the conversation.

First, John tries going up to his room and listening with his stethoscope pressed to the floor. But all he hears is slightly-louder-than-usual-but-still-incoherent rumbling. Clearly, he has to get closer. So he waits for Sherlock to retire to his room and stands very quietly in the kitchen for a long time, waiting for Sherlock to say something.

After a few minutes of silence, Sherlock mumbles, very quietly so that John has to lean in and tilt his head to make it out, "John, I know you're there. I can hear you breathing." John quickly grabs a mug and begins making tea.

"Don't know what you're talking about, I'm just making tea," he calls loudly to the door. He pours the tea, loudly stirs in some milk, and stomps down the stairs to sit and chat with Mrs. Hudson for a while. Plan A is nixed.

When John comes home from work that night, he knocks on Sherlock's bedroom door. There is no response from within, which he takes as a cue to enter. Upon opening the door, however, he finds Sherlock sitting on his bed, cocooned in sheets. "You all right?" he asks, sitting down next to his friend.

Sherlock grunts.

"Well, I just wanted to say that I'm sorry, for trying to listen in on you today."

Another grunt.

"I'm just not really used to being excluded from a case, you know, and I figured if I made it obvious that I was interested…"

He's cut off by a wave of Sherlock's hand.

"Very well, then, I'm glad we had this chat." John stands quickly and leaves the room, slamming the door behind him. Sherlock makes another noise, this one more of a pondering, "hmmm…" John decides to call Lestrade and go out for a drink.

"I just can't stand him sometimes-"

"Yeah, mate, we all know that feeling," Lestrade interrupts, clapping John on the shoulder. He and John are sitting at the bar with two drinks and some chips and other assorted junk foods in front of them. John slides a plate in front of Greg, knowing that the food will distract the detective from talking long enough for him to get a sentence in edgewise.

"I don't know how you ever put up with him all by yourself," John admits.

"Oh, I didn't. He was in rehab every other month, and when he was out it was me and his brother keeping watch over him – me keeping him occupied with cases, his brother keeping watch over him at home. Or at least that's what Sherlock told me, when he had a mind to share anything that didn't relate to a case." Greg's talking through a mouthful of chips, making John regret offering him food. He takes a swig of John's pint. "Never did meet him though, Sherlock's brother."

John thinks Lestrade may have had too much to drink. He asks the bartender for a glass of water and pours it into Lestrade's empty glass. He drinks deeply from it, not noticing the difference. "All right, well it's been nice talking to you, Greg, but I think I should get back." They both stand, Lestrade swaying slightly. John gently leads him out and calls him a taxi.

While he's getting in, Lestrade turns around and asks, "You didn't ever meet him, did you? You met Sherlock's brother?" John doesn't answer, instead telling the cabbie Greg's address.

Turning around and heading back towards Baker Street, John thinks for a minute about Mycroft. He does keep a very close eye on Sherlock, even now. And Sherlock does suspect him of having installed video surveillance in their apartment…

Suddenly a brilliant idea pops into John's slightly-foggy head. He should pick up a film for himself and Sherlock to watch tomorrow night. Now that he's gotten Sherlock into crap telly, he's trying to get him watching movies, too. Of course if watching television with him is any indication, watching a movie with Sherlock (especially one he hasn't seen before) is going to drive John nuts.

The things he puts up with in the name of cultural education.


	4. Chapter 4

On his way home, John stumbles into a store and shuffles over to the cashier. "Hello, can I help you?" the cashier asks.

"Yeah, mate, you got any Star Wars movies in here? Maybe Pulp Fiction?" John asks, swaying slightly. The cashier looks concerned.

"Sir, this is a clothing store," he says slowly, fearing an emotional response from John. "The film store is next door; if you'd like me to escort you over-"

"Oh, no. No no no. That's fine, sorry. Don't worry about-" While backing up, worrying about whether or not he's going to get arrested for public drunkenness, John hits a rack of clothes. –"Okay, good night," he mumbles as he turns fully around and exits as quickly as possible without running. He stop outside the next door and takes a deep breath. "You are not drunk," he tells himself quietly. "You have not even had that much to drink and you, John Hamish Watson, are no lightweight."

"Sure," replies a man leaning against the wall. He lights a cigarette and leaves, sauntering slowly away as if he wants John to admire his ass. Wait, no. Not admire. Just look at. Right.

John shakes his head and opens the door. Definitely looks more promising than the clothing store, he thinks. He decides to browse instead of heading straight for the checkout. He finds Pulp Fiction and Silence of the Lambs and decides to call it good.

On the way home, John wonders what Plan B should be. Asking Sherlock about it? Asking Mrs. Hudson to snoop for him? Asking Molly? He unlocks the door to 221B and hangs his coat, giving his cane a pat on the handle. Sherlock wants to throw it away, but John won't let him. It's a sentimental thing, he'd said. Sherlock had huffed and rolled his eyes at that.

"Hey, Sherlock. Movie," John says, nudging Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock jumps up and slams his laptop shut. He looks up, clearly not having heard what John said.

"Nothing!" he replies defensively. He narrows his eyes. "What movie?"

John holds up the two. "Pick."

Sherlock takes both and reads the backs, looks at the pictures, the little brochures on the inside cover. "What are they about?" he asks.

"You just read the blurbs, didn't you?" John asks, slightly annoyed.

"Well yes, but that's only sensationalized garbage perpetuated by magazines and movie critics to-"

"Just pick one," John says evenly. He's starting to regret this whole idea. Sherlock rolls his eyes again, like a teenager who knows that he's smarter than his professor.

"Fine, this one." He tosses Silence of the Lambs to John and sits back like a queen awaiting her fool.

They watch the movie halfway through, interrupted by Sherlock's declaration that Clarice Starling's detective work is the worst he's ever had the displeasure of being forced to watch. Furthermore, he asserts, neither Buffalo Bill nor Hannibal Lecter strike anything close to fear into his (apparently stone) heart.

Plan B forms in that instant between Sherlock's standing up to leave the room and his declaration that the movie is garbage. As Sherlock gathers his robe about him for the getaway, John puts a hand on his forearm, arresting his motion. Sherlock looks up, annoyed and confused. Usually John will let him leave, but there must be something on his mind… Sherlock's spine tingles, sending little jolts of nervousness through his hands and up the back of his neck. If his hair wasn't naturally curly, he could imagine it curling up and out from pure electrical impulse, all of the electrons striving for the maximum distance from each other even though there are no extra electrons to begin with. Strands of protein becoming alive again, curling and uncurling with pleasure and pain. Sherlock becomes aware of the fact that John is saying something, but he's caught up in the movement of his mouth, the shiny golden hairs at his top lip which he missed during his morning shave, the small scar on his chin which must have been incurred at least five years ago, judging by the faded tissue.

"Sherlock…is there something wrong? Something you're not telling me?" John asks sincerely, hoping an honest question will bring forth an honest answer. Sherlock seems as though he is processing, so John lifts his hand and sits back down, awaiting an answer.

Sherlock's stomach drops. What does John think he's hiding? Has he been talking to Mycroft about this? He scrubs a hand through his hair, thinking. Honestly? He can't tell John what he's been thinking. It would never work out. "I…um," Sherlock starts.

The doorbell rings.

"I'll get it," John mutters, wondering why things like this always have to be interrupted right when he's about to make a breakthrough with his stubborn, closed-off flatmate. He opens the door to find a delivery man with a package and a clipboard.

"Package for a Mr. John Watson," the man says. John frowns, furrows his brows.

"Yes, that's me," he says, and proceeds to sign the form. The man thanks him and leaves. John shuts the door and brings the package back with him. "Ordering things under my name again?" he asks, putting it next to Sherlock on the couch.

"No, this one's really for you," Sherlock replies. He can feel his pulse quickening. Is this going to be the big reveal? He'd been planning on just putting the teacup back in the cupboard like it had never even been broken, but now that John had seen the package, there was no going back. John shrugged and opened it, pulling out the teacup. It was identical, made of the same china and hand-painted with the same design. And, as a bonus, Sherlock had had a saucer made for it.

"What's this?" John asked, awed. Where did Sherlock find this?

"Do you like it? I had it made."

"For me?"

"For you."

John wanted to tear up. People accuse Sherlock of not being able to care, of being a machine, nothing beyond intelligence. And sometimes it's an easy lie to believe; Sherlock is not the kind of guy who will make you tea when you're sad or sick or tired. Sherlock will not remember your birthday or your anniversary or your work schedule. But he will go out of his way to make you just a little bit more comfortable sometimes, even if it's something silly like remaking John's mother's favorite teacup.

But John couldn't just cry right in front of Sherlock like that. He wipes his face and smiles. "Thank you, Sherlock. I can't tell you what this means to me."

"You're welcome, John." Sherlock stands to leave, thinking that if John wants to cry he should feel free to do so, which means he should be alone. But John stops him yet again.

"Is this what you weren't telling me about? Were you worried that I might not like it?" he asks, as though he were speaking to a child.

Sherlock considers saying yes. Instead, he picks the skull up from the kitchen table and replies (with his best nonchalant voice), "I'll be in my room if you need me, John."

A few moments later Sherlock's voice can be heard rumbling quietly about the flat. John sighs, looking at the teacup. Onto Plan C.


End file.
